


Five times Owen evaded questions around him being trans

by orphan_account, Prop_Logic



Series: Trans Owen Farrell [7]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: M/M, Trans Owen Farrell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prop_Logic/pseuds/Prop_Logic
Summary: And one time he didn't have to.
Relationships: Jamie George/Owen Farrell, Owen Farrell & Saracens
Series: Trans Owen Farrell [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1221764
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	Five times Owen evaded questions around him being trans

**Author's Note:**

> Long time no see, I suppose...? This fic feels pretty weird, I'll be honest, not only because it's obviously my first rugby fic in _a while_ \- I've had a lot of thoughts floating in my head but getting them out into actual writing with *plot* has been a different matter - but also because it's in past tense I have become so used to writing in present that... well. It's awkward, to say the least.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're all well, and I'd just like to hold a moment of silence for Bristol Bears. But also. I swear to the rugby gods that I can genuinely tell Ben and Tom Curry apart - even regardless of the hair differences. I did work out which one was which before I knew whose hair was whose today. 
> 
> Back to the fic - there is some very vaguely referenced dysphoria, but I wouldn't say it comes up much. However, there are some questionable practices when it comes to binding in the first part of this, so: DO NOT WEAR A NORMAL BINDER FOR EXERCISE. If you are going to exercise in a binder, use one the next size up. Do not wear your binder for too long at any one time, and take breaks. Follow the recommendations. Also, although it's not mentioned at all in this fic, please never bind with duct tape, ACE bandages, etc., and only buy binders from reputable sources. Avoid binders with zips or clasps, and any without some kind of over-the-shoulder support.
> 
> Er... Yeah. Yes, I should probably be writing my HP fic, given that one actually has a regular update schedule and plans (admittedly only in my head, but that's still more than normal), structure, etc, plus the whole being off to uni thing that I mentioned in said fic's notes, but... Maybe I just missed feeling comfortable to ramble away in the notes? Who knows? (I do feel kind of sad about restricting all of my fics at the moment, to be honest, but I'm rather aware that I've opened myself up to a lot more eyes with the HP fic, so even this feels like a big step for me right now! Plus there's the fact that I let someone whom I've discussed in past notes have a link to my HP fic, and I don't want them going back through and reading all that, because that would be awkward as heck. But I should take the time to actually stop rambling and get on with posting.)
> 
> (Oh - and right before I post: there are people in here who I haven't tagged. I just tagged the ones who I thought came up most.)

**1.** **2007**

Owen’s ribs ached. The bones groaned with the force placed on them, his intercostal muscles stabbing deep into his chest every time he tried to gasp for air, and it was nothing to do with the intensity of the contact training. It was fine, though, so long as he didn’t take too many deep breaths, and if he just adjusted a few things to take the pressure off for a couple of moments while everyone was distracted…

Turning away, he slipped a hand up his jersey to find his binder and pull it away from his skin, sucking in several harsh lungfuls and ignoring the way his ribs almost seem to creak. All too soon, however, his teammates’ voices behind him informed him that the moment of distraction was over, and he resettled his binder with no small amount of reluctance.

“Owen!”

Jumping, he turned towards the coaches and jogged over when he spotted the hand lifted to beckon him closer.

“Time you took a small break, isn’t it?”

At once, Owen opened his mouth to protest, to insist that he was fine, but the breath he drew in to speak had him wincing, his hand lifting halfway to his ribs, and the firm stare he found himself on the end of made it clear that the action had not gone unnoticed.

“Owen, go and take your binder off. I don’t want to see you back out here for at least five minutes.”

Knowing better than to argue too firmly, Owen turned to trudge off to the changing rooms, glancing over his shoulder as he went to catch several of his teammates watching him – as always. Holding back a grimace, he reached up to take his mouthguard out and wandered on, through the changing room door to remove first his shirt and then his binder.

For the next five minutes, he paced alone, shirt tugged back on but not sitting _right_. He couldn’t exactly complain, though; this was the compromise he made to be allowed to wear a binder – even a looser one than usual – during training, and it was definitely better than the alternative.

“Alright, Faz?” Sam Stanley asked when Owen wandered back out, having paused at the side of the pitch just long enough to get a nod of acceptance from his coach before jogging across to join his teammates. “Something up?”

Owen shook his head without a word, more than used to some variant of this question from one or another of his fellow Academy players and happy to lean on their own familiarity with his refusal to explain. For a moment, Sam eyed him, but then came the usual shrug before the other boy turned back to the training at hand.

More than happy to follow that lead, Owen switched his focus to the work, the discomfort in his ribs back to a mere twinge.

**2\. 2012**

The day Owen found out that he had been called up for England’s Six Nations campaign was honestly one of the best days of his life. If pressed, he probably would have said that the first day of training sat at around the same point in an all time list of ‘best days’; from the moment he arrived, he dived straight in, committing to finding his feet and holding his head up, making himself heard whenever he had something to contribute. He refused to be fazed by the unfamiliar faces around him.

Unfortunately, that hardly undermined the fact that they _were_ unfamiliar faces – faces of people whom he did not know well, and in turn who did not know him well, either. For the most part, that was fine; they would get used to him quickly enough, just as he would get used to them, and he had played against most of them for Saracens often enough to know all he _really_ needed to about them for the time being.

If only that were enough for them to agree in the reverse.

Owen was just about self-conscious enough when it came to his scars to turn his back surreptitiously when changing before heading out onto the pitch. With his chest to the wall for just long enough to pull on his _England_ training jersey, it was easy to keep the stark lines hidden from his new teammates, and no one commented on his behaviour; no one noticed anything unusual at all.

He pushed himself hard through the session, throwing everything into it mentally and physically, and trudged back to the changing rooms at Charlie Hodgson’s side, entirely focused on their intense conversation. On Charlie’s other side, Toby Flood watched them both with amusement, listening in interest and clearly trying to get a feel for Owen, but Owen paid the Tigers fly-half little mind – _too_ little mind.

“I get what you’re saying,” he told Charlie as he set his boots down beneath his spot on the bench, then paused to tug his shirt off, the presence of his Saracens clubmate guiding his mind into its usual post-training routine. “I just think –”

“Fucking _Christ_ , mate,” Flood blurted out, interrupting the conversation out of nowhere, and Owen had no time to work out what the problem was before Flood made it explicitly clear. “The fuck is up with your chest?”

Slowly, Owen turned his gaze downwards, taking in the scars marring the flesh over his ribcage, and felt his cheeks heat up in seconds. Logically, he’d already been aware that his new teammates would have to see these at some point – that he couldn’t keep them hidden forever – but he wasn’t _ready_ yet, and he still didn’t know how to explain them away.

The truth was not an option, not here.

All of a sudden, he missed Saracens desperately, missed Jamie desperately.

“Ah…” he managed, and could find nothing but an awkward chuckle to fill the vacuum.

“It’s like…” Flood reached out, then retracted his hand, gaping at Owen’s chest as he shook his head. “ _Jesus_ …”

Owen glanced anxiously at Charlie, who knew the truth and looked as uncertain as Owen felt. Suddenly, Owen wished he’d discussed this with his clubmates before, made it clear to them that he did not plan on being open about all of this with England. Maybe, then, Charlie would have been able to jump in or help him out somehow.

“That’s not – It’s just… just a few scars,” he stumbled out, trying and failing to meet Flood’s gaze. “Nothing special. Just… Yeah.”

“Little Faz likes to get himself too involved,” Charlie jumped in finally, shooting a glance in Owen’s direction as if to check that his contribution was actually useful, appreciated. “Gets a bit too stuck in, sometimes, don’t you?”

Owen rolled his eyes, huffing as a hand ruffled his hair, and turned away to get changed before Flood could try and protest the sheer ridiculousness of that claim, mouthing his thanks out of the Leicester man’s eyeline.

That night, he messaged each and every one of the other Saracens in camp, swallowing his pride to request their help in deflecting any further questions about his scars – and was more than grateful for it over the next few days.

**3\. 2013**

The door swinging open had Owen jolting, fumbling with the needle and barely managing to avoid dropping it but luckily securing his grip on it without any incident. Relieved, he didn’t dare hang around any longer, ignoring Johnny’s presence and continuing on with his injection as calmly as possible. Pinch the skin, position the needle at a right angle…

“Er… Faz?”

“One moment,” he threw over his shoulder, trying not to sound too hurried or bothered about having an audience.

Never before had he performed his testosterone shot in front of a teammate; it was only because he wasn’t expecting Johnny back for a while that he hadn’t done this in the bathroom like he usually would in camp or on tour. _Shit_ , he hoped Johnny couldn’t see the label, wouldn’t work out what this was or why he was doing it.

Better not to think about that, though, until he didn’t need steady hands.

After a pause, the door clicked shut, and Johnny wandered over to sit down on his bed but didn’t speak. Owen finished his shot, cleared up his kit and packed it away, and headed off to the bathroom to wash his hands, wondering how long he could feasibly hold off on any conversation about this.

Johnny hadn’t seen the label – of that, Owen was fairly sure. Johnny wouldn’t know that it was testosterone and, even if he had seen it, that was no reason to make any further assumptions. Yes, Johnny had seen Owen’s surgery scars multiple times, but the chances of Johnny making the connection between those and the testosterone and coming up with _trans man_ were surely slim-to-none.

“Faz,” Johnny began the moment Owen emerged from the bathroom, horribly serious. “Owen, mate… Look, I don’t want to jump to any conclusions…”

_Shit_. Had Johnny really managed to make the leap? Tensing, Owen prepared to defend himself, his identity, his place on the team – to beg Johnny to not out him to anyone if necessary.

“You’ve just got to accept that walking in on you injecting something like that doesn’t look… good.”

That wasn’t exactly what Owen was expecting to hear. In fact, he wasn’t entirely certain of how to respond to it, unsure what Johnny even meant by that.

“If you say it’s not, like… drugs or anything – mate, I’ll take your word for it. Just, please, be honest with me.”

Oh. _Oh_.

Owen hadn’t even thought about that. It had never occurred to him that the picture Johnny saw on walking in might be _that_.

“It’s not, I swear,” he rushed out, unable to hide his relief, and Johnny hesitated, apparently not quite as willing to accept it as had been promised. “It’s medication, is all. Declared with the RFU, World Rugby, all that.”

Medication was a very loose term, admittedly, but Owen thought it fitted nicely enough.

“Medication,” Johnny repeated, obviously – and understandably – dubious. “Wasn’t aware you were ill.”

“It’s…”

For a moment, Owen struggled for something to get Johnny off his scent that wouldn’t imply something too far from the truth.

“It’s a long-standing thing,” he settled for. “I don’t like talking about it, really. The team doctors know, though, if you want to ask – or Gats. It’s just not something I like to discuss.”

Johnny shifted, awkward for a moment, then nodded his concession, and Owen fought back a smile.

**4\. 2017**

The ambush, when it came, was admittedly spectacularly executed; Owen would have been impressed if it weren’t to his detriment – or indeed, if he weren’t aware that the lads likely hadn’t planned it at all. It was, after all, quite clear that they had simply been walking past his door at just the moment he happened to open it, but that didn’t stop them improvising.

“Owen, mate!” Mike Brown grinned, towel slipped down from his shoulder to snap out and catch Owen in the leg; Owen stared back at him in silence, unimpressed. “Coming for a swim?”

“Nah, sorry –” was all Owen had a chance to get out.

“Come on, Faz,” Ben Youngs wheedled, slinging an arm over Owen’s shoulder to tug him in. “We barely ever get you in the pool – just a nice little recovery session, hey, mate?”

From Ben’s other side, Fordy offered a silent, apologetic grimace when Owen met their eyes. Clearly, they knew as well as Owen that nothing short of Owen shutting Ben down with the flexibility of a brick would dissuade the scrum-half from attempting to drag Owen down to the hotel pool.

Unfortunately, Owen wasn’t really feeling like getting that firm today, so he weighed up his options with an internal sigh – and then an external one, when he realised which choice was quickly becoming the prevalent one.

“Give me a few minutes,” he told Ben, shrugging away the arm on his shoulders without waiting for a response and stepping back into his room to collect his thoughts and work out exactly what he wanted to do about this.

As a general rule, he avoided the pool around his England teammates. That wasn’t to say that he wouldn’t indulge occasionally, and certainly not that he didn’t _like_ getting in the water. It was just easier not to put himself in that position most of the time. He was more likely to get questions about his scars, then, and there was extra trouble with changing to worry about, never mind the packer situation…

He didn’t even have a packer he was comfortable wearing in a pool with him this time, he realised belatedly – perhaps an oversight on his part, but nothing he could change now. Burying his face in his hands, he took advantage of his solitude to groan into his palms before gathering up the necessary kit and changing into proper pool attire before redressing over the top. He’d just have to hope no one spotted the… missing substance down below.

Luckily, no one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary over the course of the pool session. Fordy stuck close to Owen’s side the whole time, their presence a balm that Owen was quietly grateful for. When most of the lads pulled themselves out to change, they dragged Owen into an impromptu but engaging discussion of the Playbook to keep them both in the pool for a little while longer, excusing Owen from having to deal with the awkwardness of explaining away his desire not to get changed around anyone else.

Unfortunately, Fordy sticking around came with the less welcome presence of Ben – not that Owen minded the scrum-half’s company, but Ben didn’t know anything about Owen being trans, and therein lay the problem. When they finally made their way to the otherwise vacant changing room, Owen found himself unsure of what to do, where to go from here.

Should he head straight up to his room without changing? No, that was out of the question – but so was changing with Ben around. There was no way he was about to risk Ben seeing what little of his body the trunks currently kept hidden.

In the end, he showered for as long as he could get away with, hovering under the spray long after Fordy and Ben had picked up their towels, and only started to dry himself once both were most of the way to fully changed.

“Jesus, Faz,” Ben snorted as Owen lifted his towel to his face. “Feeling slow today, eh? Aren’t you normally the first changed or something?”

Awkwardly, Owen shrugged. He didn’t much want to get into a conversation with Ben; even regardless of the subject matter, it would be much harder to get some time alone in the changing room if he had a discussion with Ben to contend with. Where Fordy would be more than happy to wrap up a chat and leave him alone to change by himself, would know Owen wanted that, Ben wouldn’t have a clue, and that would mean an awkward stand off until Ben finally got bored of waiting around for Owen to change.

Fordy tugged their shirt over their head, glancing from Owen to Ben and then back, and frowned in silence.

“Not shy, are you?” Ben added, apparently realising that Owen was outright averse to discussing his hesitance to change. “C’mon, Faz – we’ve seen it all before…”

Owen watched the momentary confusion that flickered across Ben’s face and had no doubt that the older man was on the verge of realising that, unlike with the rest of their teammates, he never had actually seen ‘it all’ when it came to Owen.

“I’m just taking my time,” he dismissed levelly, towel hiding the whitening of his knuckles.

“Have you _ever_ got fully changed in front of the lads?” Ben asked. “Fucking hell, mate – you’ve been playing rugby for how long?”

“Lennie,” Fordy cut in quietly, but Ben was on a roll, unaware of the sensitive issues he was steamrollering right over.

“No need to worry, mate, seriously,” the scrum-half promised, the grin on his face entirely betraying any drop of sincerity that might have been hinted at by his words. “We’re all supportive here – look, it’s just me and Fordy…”

Owen stared up at Ben in silence, ignoring the hard press of the bench into his thighs and trying to focus instead on the towel within his tight grip. His face was starting to flush, cheeks prickling with heat, and he didn’t have anything to say to this, his throat dry.

“Ben, stop being a dick,” Fordy interrupted once more, flat and unimpressed. “Owen’s taking his time – the fuck are you jumping to conclusions for? Just ‘cos he’s working harder than you in training doesn’t mean you need to jump on him when he’s tired later.”

Ben blinked at his teammate, visibly taken aback, and pity for the older man warred with relief and gratitude for Fordy’s intervention in Owen’s chest.

“Right,” Ben muttered after an uncomfortable pause, gaze flickering between Fordy and Owen one last time before he snatched up his bag and, jaw tense, marched from the room.

The door slammed on its way out, and Fordy winced, guilt flashing across their face.

“I’ll talk to him later,” they sighed, picking at their shirt before turning to Owen. “You alright, mate?”

“Good,” Owen assured them at once. “Thanks for…”

Coughing in embarrassment – needing help with that sort of thing was never easy on his pride – he stood and turned his focus to getting changed, relieved when Fordy left the room quickly. While his old friend _had_ seen most of Owen’s body before, it wasn’t exactly something Owen was keen to show off to anyone, and an audience was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

**5\. 2019**

Groaning, Owen lifted his arms to stretch, lacing his fingers above his head and leaning back to let his back crack several times in quick succession before turning to follow the rest of his teammates into the changing rooms, their session wrapped up with a good discussion at the end. This warm-weather camp had been exactly the kind of hell he loved so far, even a mere two days in, and he was looking forward to the improvements to be found in the rest of it, the heights it could help them reach.

The squad was gelling well too, he acknowledged as he unlaced his boots and tugged them off. On entering the changing rooms, it was clear to see the progress they had all made over the last week or so of training together. Even yet to learn exactly who would be on the plane to Japan in a few months, it was a good sign that the competitive nature of the lads’ relationships was fusing well with a sense of respect and team spirit.

Yanking his shirt over his head and dropping it unceremoniously to the bench, he glanced over the team one last time before turning away to change with only one ear open to the conversations around him.

“Coley,” Lewis Ludlam whispered somewhere nearby, the hushed tone catching Owen’s attention – likely the opposite of its purpose, but Lewis would learn that sort of thing in time. “Er… I’ve just been wondering… I don’t really want to ask him – I don’t know if it’s a sensitive topic – but… What’s up with the scars Faz has on his chest?”

Owen resisted the urge to glance down at the scars in question, trying not to give away that he had heard Lewis’s nervous enquiry. He had honestly been expecting something of the sort to come up soon, but that never changed the hope that, for once, a new wave of England players wouldn’t bring extra curiosity around his surgery scars.

“Scars?” Dan Cole echoed. “What, the…?”

Owen didn’t miss the gesture that Dan made, running his fingers across his chest as if to draw the lines themselves.

“Dunno,” the prop admitted when Lewis nodded, shrugging. “He doesn’t talk about them, honestly. You’d be better off asking him, but he probably won’t give you much either.”

Lewis’s mouth opened, then closed with a snap, his chin dropping for a second before his eyes flickered over to Owen – too quickly for Owen to look away and pretend that he hadn’t been listening. _Fuck._

For a moment, they merely stared at each other in embarrassed silence, Owen glad that he had already pulled a clean shirt on to hide the subject of the seemingly inevitable discussion.

“Faz…?” Lewis ventured carefully, Dan glancing over to Owen as well.

“Just surgery scars,” Owen dismissed without inflection, more than used to deflecting any questions. “Nothing special.”

“ _Surgery_?” Lewis all but squeaked, eyes wide.

“It was years ago,” Owen allowed, catching Jamie’s eyes briefly across the room and nodding a reassurance; he was fine. “They’re fading with time.”

In truth, they’d likely faded as much as they were going to. Owen couldn’t imagine them getting any fainter than they already were, but he didn’t particularly mind; he wasn’t too fussed about the scars, just the questions, but he could deal with those well enough. In a way, the scars themselves were a badge of honour for him – his evidence that he survived his teens and the torturous years of dysphoria and came out – _ha_ – stronger for it.

“Oh…”

Uncertain, Lewis looked from Owen to Dan.

“You won’t get any more out of him,” Dan told their new teammate with a careless lift of one shoulder. “No one’s got the full story out of him as long as he’s been playing for England, to be fair. Faz likes his secrets.”

Owen blinked, non-plussed. Not one of his teammates had ever acknowledged his avoidance of those sorts of questions, but Dan didn’t even seem to mind, or to be at all bothered about pressing the point.

It was quite nice, actually.

**1.**

“You’ll tell me if there’s anything you’re not comfortable with, yeah?” Jamie checked for the third time, Owen nodding with a small smile.

“That goes both ways, Jinx,” he reminded softly.

Jamie blinked, then shrugged.

“Of course, yeah, just…”

“I know,” Owen assured him. “Look, if you’re really that nervous, we can talk about it more first.”

Visibly hesitant, Jamie bit his lip.

“If that’s what you want – I don’t want to make you uncomfortable…”

“I don’t mind either way,” Owen told him truthfully. “To be honest, if I’m going to have sex with you, I should bloody well be comfortable to have a chat about what I’ve got going on in various places.”

Jamie cracked a smile, there, leaning over to kiss Owen gently before settling back.

“Alright,” he agreed, then sucked in a deep breath. “Alright. Is there anything you particularly want to tell me, or should I just…?”

“Ask away,” Owen replied. “I’ve already told you what I think’s most pressing, so…”

Nodding to concede the point, Jamie seemed to take a moment to compose himself.

“Your chest – your scars,” he began. “Are you…? Should I avoid them, or…?”

“They’re fine,” Owen promised at once. “I guess I kind of like them. I just can’t feel much through them, obviously.”

Jamie snorted.

“Right. And you’ve already said you’re okay with…”

“I’ll tell you if anything I’ve said changes,” Owen assured him. “Same as you should, yeah? Any other worries – for me _or_ for you?”

For a moment, Jamie paused, clearly thinking it over.

“I don’t… _think_ so?”

Owen let a grin spread across his face, shifting a little closer to his boyfriend.

“Good – because we’ve only got the house to ourselves for another hour, and I’d like to make the most of that.”

Jamie swallowed, lifting a hand to settle carefully on Owen’s thigh and firming his touch when Owen didn’t object.

“I can, er… get behind that.”

Satisfied, Owen closed the gap between them.

**Author's Note:**

> And we'll cut it off there - that's a wrap. Seriously, though, you don't need to be trans, getting into kinky stuff, or anything else outside the norm to be communicating with your sexual partners. Just saying. That should be the baseline.
> 
> I do feel like this could be a window into a wider world I want to write, with a lot more queer/LGBTQ+ England players - you may have spotted non-binary Fordy, for example. I might reintroduce Kyle/Ellis with that, for example, maybe some polyamory as well, could get a wider exploration of the beautiful variety within our community in... I'd love to hear anyone's thoughts/ideas/suggestions.


End file.
